


Bowled Over and Accounted For

by FrancesHouseman



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Bottoming from the Top, Case Fic, Gift Fic, M/M, Plotty, Sibling Incest, Topping from the Bottom, but kind of the other way up, eventually, halloween fic, hand jobs in the woods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-04-28 06:46:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5081738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancesHouseman/pseuds/FrancesHouseman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic is a gift for Linden <3</p><p>Happy Halloween ;)</p><p>You've no idea how many marshmallows I had to eat to write this story. I even bought Nutella to dip them in at one point, which I suspect is not really the same at all, and I wouldn't recommend it, or at least not in excess :S</p><p>It's possible I've seen one too many pictures of Jared with those moose antlers too :)</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Linden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linden/gifts).



> This fic is a gift for Linden <3
> 
> Happy Halloween ;)
> 
> You've no idea how many marshmallows I had to eat to write this story. I even bought Nutella to dip them in at one point, which I suspect is not really the same at all, and I wouldn't recommend it, or at least not in excess :S
> 
> It's possible I've seen one too many pictures of Jared with those moose antlers too :)

  
  


They're in a crap-hole diner off of Route 35 and Sam's coffee is as grey as the sky. Sam himself is tapping away at the laptop, already scanning news sites for their next hunt.

Their latest evil-dead is barely a hot shower and an hour of highway in the rear-view. It was Dean who had staked zombie-girl into the sodden earth of Walnut Hill Cemetery, from whence she came. His upper arms tremble with the recent strain of grave desecration. He stretches his legs out, feeling full and lazy now that they're safe. The grimy window frames a grim October landscape and he's glad for the indoor comfort of the diner; thinks again that they should head South for the winter.

“Hey Sam, what kind are they?” Dean asks, gesturing at an impressively large cloud of tiny bodies rising from the skyline and sweeping their way.

Sam glances up, registers the menace, and immediately goes back to typing.“What, the birds? Starlings probably,” he says distractedly. “Hey, listen to this. There are four missing persons in Stonefort, Illinois, but they're all adults with reasons to disappear, so nobody's making a fuss yet.”

“Yeah?” The starlings turn and fly away again, a fleeting 'U' writ large across the sky. They settle back in the copse of trees where they'd started. Crazy birds. “So what makes it interesting for us?”

“One of them turned up dead last night, missing one eye and one tooth. Well, _probably_ missing one eye and one tooth,” Sam amends, “It's not an official report. Crime scene details were leaked.”

Dean doesn't know how Sam finds this shit online. He misses the days of the local newspaper, when you could cut a story out and hold it in your hands. It's too easy for words on a screen to change; for computers to lie. “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth?” he says, doubtful, “Probably just some Bible nut getting his vengeance on.”

“Yes, _except_ ,” Sam swivels the laptop so that Dean's looking at a blurry photo from a blog site. He taps the screen with a fingernail and if Dean squints he can make out a symbol drawn onto wood. “Lambs blood,” Sam says. “It's the Hand of Eris. Y'know, Eris? The Goddess of Chaos?”

Dean says nothing, just rolls his eyes and sips his tepid coffee. Trust Sam to find witches.

  
  


****

  
  


The next time they stop it's because Sam orders him to, _'Pull the fuck over Dean.'_ Dean's vision is straining in the dark and he must have blinked his eyes rapidly and screwed them shut one too many times. They're only five miles out of Stonefort but Sam makes him switch before swinging Baby's headlights back out onto the blacktop.

“Where are we staying anyway?” Dean asks. Sam hadn't called ahead to book a room. Dean allows for the familiar shift when Sam slides the bench seat back a few inches for his longer legs. He fusses with the mirrors too before settling, always so difficult to please.

“Look at the laptop.”

Dean huffs but does as he's asked, the screen dazzling him even on the dimmest setting. There's a map open on the desktop, five locations linked by thin black lines to form a pentagram. The centre of the pentagram sits across the boundary of the Shawnee National Forest.

“There's a settlement of vacation cabins,” Sam explains, “Right there, at the centre of last known locations. The fifth point is where they found Bruno Reye's body.” He looks smug.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean concedes, but inwardly sighs. There will be nobody home this time of year, and God knows log cabins are cosier than some of the places they've stayed, but Dean has an ongoing love affair with guaranteed hot water, and also with adult movies on cable.

Three nights ago, in a chain motel with pink décor, they'd had a breakthrough. Sam had turned a blind eye to Dean's TV porn for the first time ever, and Dean is keen to test these new boundaries, although he doubts that Sam will ever agree to watch it with him. The problem is that Sam can't stand for Dean to know when he's turned on. It's the one area where Sam's a closed book to Dean. Commenting on long showers, catching Sam watching porn, or worse, _joking_ about Sam getting hot under the collar, it all conspires to drive Sam into a colossal snit. Dean used to worry that it meant Sam was some kind of prude, but now he gets it. Sam needs this big mystery, this one part of himself that Dean can't touch.

Secretive little brother with his unreadable eyes.

  
  


****

  
  


The Buckner Ridge Cabins are deserted, as predicted. Sam mocks Dean for choosing the cabin farthest out from the others but Dean knows his training, even after all these years. Trees screen their cabin from the track and it would mean a couple of extra minutes' warning, should someone come looking.

“Catch.” Dean says it too late for Sam to brace himself, so the carry-all of basic protections hits him square in the chest. He lets out an _'oof_ ,' but closes his arms around it on instinct, as Dean knew he would.

Sam glares daggers. “Fucking jerk,” he mutters, but it's just for effect.

The interior is a mismatch of the kitch and the bizarre, with way too many cushions. It's clean and tidy though, only a thin layer of dust from a couple months' vacancy, and the electricity works, which is great news for hot water.

It's hard to tell whether the owners are elderly and stuck in the fifties, or if they're yuppies with a keen eye for all things retro. Probably the latter, judging by the fancy espresso machine in the side kitchen. Sam notices it at the same time and catches Dean's grin, shooting back one of his own.

Two tribal masks and a colourful tapestry adorn the walls. A weird triangular-shaped guitar thing stands in a corner beside a dirty metal statue of a fox. The furniture is old looking, red dimpled leather and dark wood; the kind of thing Dr Watson would sit on while Sherlock Holmes paced and smoked his pipe.

“No curtains,” Sam notes, and it's true, no blinds either. It's not like there are neighbours to worry about but it still rankles with Dean that they will be visibly vulnerable to the outside world.

“We could make our own,” he says, “There's plenty of blankets. Hammer and nails in the car.”

Sam chews on his thumb nail while he considers it and Dean kind of hopes he'll say yes, even if he is bone-tired and it would mean prolonging the routine precautions keeping him from sleep.

“Nah. If someone does come out here then they're gonna find us, curtains or not,” Sam decides. “And it would leave holes in the walls.”

“They're really small nails,” Dean grumbles, but Sam's right.

Two bedrooms lead off the main living area, linked by a tiny shared bathroom. Dean hates sleeping in other people's beds. Motels are one thing but this is different, it's someone's home-from-home, and besides, each bedroom is occupied by only one king-sized bed. Dean hates sleeping in separate rooms even more.

“If we sleep in here then we won't have to heat the whole place,” Sam says, gesturing around the small living area, and Dean relaxes.

They roll out their floor mats and sleeping bags, toe-ends pointing to the little wood-burning stove in the centre of the room. Dean lays salt lines and starts a small fire. Sam moves rugs and climbs on a chair to chalk their ever-growing artillery of protective sigils on the floors and walls.

When it's finally time to sleep Dean can't. His eyes keep straying to the window on Sam's side. He wants to put himself between Sam and the curtainless void but there are windows on his side too. It makes him restless.

There's plenty of moonlight to watch Sam by. His face is slack in sleep, turned slightly away, north-north-east. What does Sam dream of these days? Hopefully not the Cage anymore, and if there are prophetic dreams then he's keeping schtum about them. Dean wants to make him dream of nice things. He imagines projecting dreams of french fries and candy in Sam's direction. He thinks about running through fields of yellow sunlight, maybe wrestling each other, and it quickly degenerates into the fantasy of being allowed to touch.

Dean turns away and jerks off silently, imagining that his hands are Sam's larger ones, imagining pressing his body against his brother. Sleep comes quickly enough with the post-orgasm fuzz.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

  
  


Presenting themselves as federal agents serves two purposes in a town like this: It would stop the locals calling the real feds if (or _when_ , according to Sam, the pessimist) another corpse turns up missing the same body parts. It also gives them free reign to ask whatever the hell questions they want of the victims' families without having to worry about getting kicked out.

“So, the IVF failed for the third time and Melissa lost her job back in May?” Sam says.

Mrs Twyford wrings her hands but nods earnestly. “That's right. Last Tuesday she and Bill had a talk about the coastal redwoods in California, and Missy said she was planning a road trip. I just wish she'd stopped by here on her way, you know? To let us know, so we wouldn't worry. Bill thinks she'll be back before winter really sets in.”

By means of perfectly executed reverse psychology, Dean had tricked Sam into getting an actual tailored suit to fit his gigantor frame. It fits _perfectly_. Every time Sam wears it he looks so damned fine that Dean sends a silent prayer of gratitude to the gods of aesthetics.

“Thank you for your time, ma'm,” Sam says, and his voice is a reassuring blend of sympathy and steel.

Sam is a more believable fed than the real deal these days. He's a TV fed, exactly the way the great American public have been trained to expect.

“As we said before, this is only a precautionary interview in light of recent events. So far as we know, your sister is just fine.” And that's plain bullshit, but Sam's had Mrs Twyford eating out of his hand for the entire interview, and she laps it up.

“Where now?” Dean says, once they're outside again in the sunshine.

Sam shrugs. “We're missing something.”

Hannah Cline's parents had told them a story about a bad breakup, and the stilted, awkward formality of that interview had spoken volumes about Hannah's non-relationship with her family.

Nobody really knew where Rory McNamara had come from, rolling into town with a deep golden tan and a pick-up truck eight months back, and nobody had expected him to stick around for long. The missing person's report had been a formality on the part of his employers at Firstline Construction Inc.

The scene of Bruno Reyes' grisly death revealed that the Hand of Erin had been painted onto the side of the shed in which he had died, and much more recently than the death had occurred. The stench of rotting corpse had alerted the neighbours; Bruno had been dead quite some time. Local law enforcement had followed procedure and waited for the official report but it didn't take a forensic expert to figure out the cause of death. The pruning sheers had been removed from Bruno's chest when they'd rolled him out for viewing, but there was still a gaping hole where they'd been. His right central incisor and left eye had been removed by an unknown sharp object, thankfully post mortem.

“We still need Dead-Guy's back story,” Dean points out. “And there's at least one witch in this town, Sammy. Let's ask around, see if we can hunt her down.”

  
  


****

  
  


There are no Goth kids hanging out at the diner, dabbling in the dark arts. The FBI badges get them access to library records but nobody has been borrowing heavily on the New Age Wiccan section either. There's one shop in town that sells candles, mostly scented, along with other pointless gifts. They don't even stock black candles though, and do very little trade in candles of any colour. As far as Dean can tell, the gift shop does most business selling heart-shaped pieces of wood that read 'Dance', 'Live', 'Love', and/or 'Laugh.' He considers getting one for Sam, 'Dance' maybe, and adding some words of his own.

Sam had said they'd stock up on food and call it an early day. ' _Just as soon as we've checked in with the Sheriff_ ,' Sam had said. ' _It shouldn't take long_ ,' Sam had said. ' _Half an hour, max_ ,' Sam had said.

Two hours later and the man is _still talking_. Bruno Reyes had been the first to go missing over five weeks ago. He had owed a lot of money to some very shady people, and the Sheriff had assumed that he'd skipped town, before he'd turned up dead. The Sheriff's pet theory is now gruesome Mafia-style execution, and the guy clearly needs to get out more. They say nothing to dissuade him of his underworld crime thrills, and by the time they escape it's after 4pm and Dean's stomach has moved all the way past growling and onto snarling.

  
  


****

  
  


When Dean chows down on his giant club sandwich, once they're back at the cabin, sitting out on its little wooden porch in the late afternoon sun, it tastes twice as good as usual, despite all the green stuff and tomatoes that Sam forced him to add. He totally understands why people use this place for a vacation get-away; it's gorgeous. Here at the edge of the forest is the best of both worlds: trees in all their fall glory immediately around them, and rolling fields beyond, all of it burnished in gold by the sun.

Maybe it's the ecstasy of food, or the way the first cold beer gets him just right, like it sometimes does; or maybe it's a trick of the light, the way Sam looks softer, a living idol in worn jeans and flannel by Dean's side, but Dean feels abruptly sentimental. His heart squeezes, swollen too big for his chest, and he's so glad to be allowed this, feels so lucky to be alive. He chokes down the rest of his beer and stands, turning away from Sam before swiping at his eyes. “Wan' another beer?”

“Actually, I was thinking that we should take a look around,” Sam says. “I know five points on a map aren't really enough to mark out a kill zone but we're at the centre of what's happened so far.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, because he wants to walk out together in this glorious place too.

  
  


****

  
  


There's a map of footpaths and hiking trails in the cabin, coloured arrows marking out different trails. They pick blue, since it will take them on a nice loop of the cabin settlement, and should allow time to walk leisurely before sunset.

Sam collects sweet chestnuts, something about roasting them on the fire when they get back. Dean sneaks glances at his ass and feels no remorse. It's starting to feel like a vacation, almost suspicious in its perfection. The optimal environment for Winchesters, better than any djinn-induced fantasy or Angel-juiced reality.

“Last green leaves of summer,” Sam says, nodding ahead to a giant oak, heavy with foliage.

“Like that saying, ' _Oak before Ash we'll have a splash_ ', right?”

“No, that's spring. Ash loses its leaves first in fall, oaks last.”

“Why is it I can't see the outline of that encyclopedia you swallowed, Sam?”

“Fuck off,” Sam says, mildly. “Dean, I think there's something _behind_ the tree.”

They watch as a giant man with antlers steps out and blocks their path.

“What the fuck?” Dean hisses, his weapon already drawn by his thigh. They stare. Antler-man stares back. It's like some crazy Narnian showdown.

“It's Herne the Hunter,” Sam says in an awed whisper.

“Herne the who now?”

“ _Shhh_ Dean, Herne the Hunter. A famous English ghost. Spirit of a hanged poacher. He's supposed to haunt the oak tree they hanged him from.”

“So what's he doing in Illinois?” Dean whispers back, as loud as whispering allows, “And why does he have antlers?”

Sam doesn't answer. He's unarmed, probably left his gun in his duffel like a dork. Not that a gun will do Dean any good but just holding it makes him feel safer, and he wants to step in front of Sam. Nobody moves. Sam says, inexplicably, “He doesn't feel like a threat,” which is bullshit because the ghost is nine feet tall and blocking their path. “Maybe this oak is descended from the one in England."

Dean side eyes him sceptically. “And the antlers?”

“Well,” Sam whispers defensively, “He's a very old ghost, Tudor old, like five hundred years or something. Not really just a ghost anymore, more of a legend or demi-god. Some people say he was a god anyway, leader of the Wild Hunt, Woden or Odin who hanged himself from Yggdrasil, the tree of-”

“Sam! How do we gank him?”

Sam doesn't answer. Herne is larger than life, only watching. His clothes are many layers of dark cloth, with old-fashioned leather boots and a giant blade strapped to his belt. The antlers are ragged, the velvet skin that would have covered them when they were newly grown hanging off in scraps. He appears to be steaming gently all over in the cold air and Dean has to admit that he's magnificent as well as freaky. “He's just like in _The Box of Delights_ ,” Sam says.

“Sam!” Dean hisses, jabbing him in the ribs, “We _are_ going to gank him, yeah?”

“He's not hurting anyone,” Sam points out and Dean would slap him, if he could take his eyes from Herne the weird-ass deer-man.

“Are you serious? He's a _ghost,_ Sam, it's what we _do_.”

Sam grabs his elbow and tries to drag him away. “We don't know what's going on yet, Dean,” he says. “Can we just... Let's do more research, like we planned, okay? Figure out exactly what's going on first.”

They walk backwards all the way to the sweet chestnut tree before they feel safe turning their backs. When they look again, Herne is gone.

 


	3. Chapter 3

  
  


Of course Sam would find some weird affinity with a giant buck.

“Would you relax?” Sam says, when Dean re-checks the salt lines for the third time. Tomorrow he's hammering in some makeshift curtains, holes in the walls be damned.

The room is as dim as they can reasonably make it, but it still must be lit up like a beacon from the outside. The froufrou tealight candles that Dean bought to annoy Sam don't add much to the glow of the fire, but their eyes have become accustomed to the low light. They're an hour into the second of two six packs and Dean's still feeling tense. He had added every synonym for 'dick' that he could think of, plus illustrations, in black sharpie, to the heart-shaped 'Dance' sign. It hangs from the door handle, where Sam had put it, like the world's weirdest _Do Not Disturb_ sign.

“Have another chestnut,” Sam suggests, and Dean wrinkles his nose.

“You're gonna be ill if you eat any more of those things,” he says.

“There's a Halloween game with chestnuts,” Sam says, “But it's probably too girly for you.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean says, trying not to show too much interest. “Well Halloween's tomorrow doofus.”

“Actually,” Sam says, checking his phone, “It's been Halloween for six minutes already. So you wanna play?”

“Do we have to play?” Dean gripes, but he's already in. Anything to take his mind of antler-monster outside. “You could just tell me about it instead.”

Sam ignores him and hands him a raw chestnut. He takes one himself, frowns at it for a moment and says, “Amelia,” as he throws it into the fire.

They wait, listening to the crackle-pop of flames, and Dean's not sure what they're waiting for. Finally there's small whistling hiss as the chestnut succumbs to the flames. Sam huffs, a bitter smile playing around his lips.

“ _If you hate me spit and fly, if you love me burn and die,_ ” he recites. “Your turn.”

For a moment Dean's mind is completely blank. He can only remember one name and definitely can't say it. “That waitress back in Desmoines,” he says finally, with a smirk to cover the mistep, but his aim is bad and the chestnut knocks against the glass casing of the burner before rebounding into the fire.

Sam raises a brow but says nothing. After a moment the chestnut fizzles out with a wheeze, just exactly the same way that Sam's had.

“Guess it's too early for that special Halloween magic,” Dean says.

Sam picks another. “Jess,” he says quietly, and throws it in.

They wait and wait but Jess's chestnut burns silently, and Dean looks at his boots.

“So?” Sam says, “C'mon man, it's your go again.”

“What? No, c'mon Sam, it's stupid. _I'm_ not a twelve year old girl.” But he picks up another chestnut anyway before the expression of disappointment can take over Sam's features. “Cassie,” he says. She's so far in the past that Dean can't feel much about her either way but she's the closest thing to Jess that he's ever had. He's not touching the Lisa and Ben thing with a bargepole, not when alcohol has been consumed, and not ever if he can get away with it.

The chestnut fizzles and hisses, a little louder than the first two, and Dean feels bizarrely proud. Cassie always was a feisty one.

Sam clears his throat. “You wanna sleep?” he says, “I've got some playing cards in my bag if not.”

“Yeah, playing cards,” Dean says, and when Sam goes to fetch them he picks up another chestnut and whispers, “Sam,” as he throws it into the fire.

They play a couple of rounds of gin rummy and then Sam starts laying the cards out in a familiar spread.

“Woah, woah, are you kidding me?” Dean says. “Do you not remember dad tellin' us never to mess with tarot cards?”

“Chill out Dean. They're not tarot cards, just normal playing cards. And everyone knows the tarot thing is a pile of crap.”

“So do _your_ future then.” Dean says, more uncomfortable with the idea of Sam reading his fortune right now than he should be.

“Why?” Sam smirks, “You scared? Think maybe I've got some left over joo-joo?”

“Asshole,” Dean grumbles, but he shuffles the pack when Sam hands it to him. He peels off the top card and lays it down crossways over the joker. “If it's a pile of crap then why do you remember how to do it?”

Sam shrugs. “Got bored and played it a lot that time at Bobby's when you and dad were off hunting a skag.” He flips Dean's chosen card over without touching it, using the back of another card. It's the Queen of Hearts, of course it is. The cards Sam laid out should give it context, but there's no context that can save Dean the embarrassment of that particular queen. His pulse picks up and he feels the heat flood his neck and face, not a damn thing he can do to stop it.

-BANG!-

They're both up and ready to fight in a flash; Dean with his gun on reflex but Sam wielding the iron poker from the fire, always the smart one.

“What the fuck?” says Sam. “You threw another chestnut onto the fire, didn't you?”

“No.” Dean tries for affronted but Sam rolls his eyes.

“Scared the crap outta me,” Sam says, but Dean's not listening anymore because _Herne the Hunter is looking in through Sam's window_. Sam follows his sight line. “Shit.” He tosses Dean a tube of household salt. “You think we're safe behind the salt lines?”

“He's not your standard restless spirit though, is he?” Dean says, eyes on Herne as he moves away into the dark. Dean's eyes dart from window to window, scanning for movement, like they had done last night. One day he's going to learn to trust his instincts.

“We don't know what's keeping him here,” Sam says. “There's nothing to salt and burn.”

“Could pump him full of rock salt anyway, make him think twice about peeping in on us again,” but Sam's shaking his head.

“He didn't do anything.”

“Yeah? Well I am _not_ gonna be able to sleep with that giant fucker creeping around. And I didn't like the way he was staring at you either. You sure he's not a blood sucker or something?”

“I still don't think he wants to hurts us,” Sam insists and Dean has to let it go. There's not much they can do about it, not tonight, and they're safer indoors than out.

  
  


****

  
  


By 2am the fire has died and they're out of wood. The cabin feels like an ice box and Dean's sure that the tip of his nose must be blue.

There are blankets in the bedrooms. It's the trip from sleeping bag to bedroom and back again that Dean's dreading but he's reached the tipping point where he's about ready to do it. Very soon. The cold and the need to sleep have made him sluggishly slow.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

“What? I didn't-” Sam shuffles backwards until his back is pressed along Dean's front and they're spooning. Dean is simultaneously much warmer and completely unable to breathe.

“I'm cold, okay?” Sam says, voice muffled and defensive.

Dean tries to force his body to relax and focuses on regular breathing. He can smell Sam's shampoo. He can smell Sam's hair. His inhalations come too quickly because he's thinking about them and he has to hold his breath again to calm down. “Okay,” he manages, shakily, and pulls his jacket up to cover them both.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam looks adorably rumpled when he wakes. The extra blankets Dean laid over him make a cosy looking nest, and Dean wants nothing more than to crawl in too. “What're you doing?” Sam says, propping himself up and rubbing open-palms over his face; finger-combing his hair.

There's already a small but respectable fire going in the burner and Dean has been out twice to fetch the things they'll need for the morning. “Thought I'd fix us some curtains,” he says, adding more water to the coffee machine.

“No,” Sam gestures to the axe, “That. Tell me you're not planning to fell the oak tree.”

“Damn right I am,” Dean says, because so what if it doesn't work? It's just a fucking tree.

“ _Dean.”_ Sam lets his himself slump back onto the borrowed pillow. “We don't understand what's going on yet. Felling the tree could make it _worse_. Anyway, it's just the two of us and dad's old hand axe. Did you even see the size of that tree?”

“We could do it,” Dean says. The old axe doesn't get enough use in his opinion.

“Yeah, maybe by next week.” Sam snarks, standing all the way up, all six foot forever of him. He scratches his belly and heads for the bathroom.

Dean turns back to the safety of coffee making, arguments pro-tree-felling blown clear out of his mind.

“ _If_ it comes to felling the tree,” Sam calls from the bathroom, “Then we'll hire power tools.” The toilet flushes and the taps run. Dean tries to visualise Sam moving around in there.

When Dean hands him the freshly brewed coffee their fingers brush and Sam startles.

“Thanks,” he says, awkwardly. “I'm gonna...” and snags his coat before shuffling out to the porch.

Dean refills the machine and sets it going again. He races to nail up the curtain blankets as fast as he can, trying to beat the coffee machine. The machine wins, rumbling and hissing to a stop before the last nail is all the way in, but only by a matter of seconds. Dean takes his second coffee out onto the porch and sits by Sam on the steps.

They look out at the fall colours and say nothing. The wide cloudless skies make Dean feel small, and his worries seem insignificant in the vastness. It's a relief.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Why's there no white line coming from that plane?” Dean points out the tiny grey dot, somehow lonelier on it's journey for the lack of a vapour trail.

Sam hums. “Low relative humidity,” he decides.

Dean resists the urge to use the word 'geek'. He's genuinely curious.

“When the air up there is too moist to take on any more water vapour it collects like a cloud. That's what you see when there's a vapour trail, water vapour from the plane's exhaust fumes. But right now the water vapour is being absorbed into the air.”

“Oh.” Dean says. Then, “That's not healthy is it? Exhaust fumes up there?”

Sam shrugs. “Mostly carbon dioxide and water. And air, I guess.”

They're quiet watching the airplane progress slowly, east to west in defiance of time and physics. It glints in the sunlight.

“So the air up there is dry right now?” Dean asks eventually and Sam smiles.

“Relatively,” he says. “Or warmer maybe, that would make a difference too.”

Two more airplanes pass overhead and Dean thinks that fall is probably his favourite season.

  
  


****

  
  


They go to the library so that Sam can research the eye/tooth angle, and also the lore on Herne the Irritation. He says something about local records but Dean's pretty sure that Sam just likes libraries; prefers the open space to work, and the more reliable network connection.

Libraries still don't do it for Dean, even after all these years of watching Sam, so he drives out to Hannah's place and breaks in. It's easy enough to jimmy open the kitchen window at the back of the house and climb through. 

Hannah's house is tidy but not painstakingly so, bright and warm in the morning sun. It's still possible that Hannah, Rory and Melissa have intentionally skipped town and Dean couldn't fault any of them for it, so he goes straight to Hannah's bedroom to look for signs of packing. 

He finds three postcards from Europe by Hannah's bed, and they immediately set Dean's spidey-senses tingling. The card from Delphi, Greece reads 'The mystery of the circle'; the card from Stonehenge, England reads 'The measure of the circle' and another from Geismar in Germany reads 'The nature of the circle'. The handwriting is the same on each, spidery and small, and almost definitely a guy's, but there's no name. Dean looks for photos and letters that will identify the guy but doesn't find any. 

In the old days there would have been a convenient hand-written diary, but today it's the laptop on the desk that Dean needs to access, and it's password protected. He has his phone out, Sam's number ready to dial, when he notices the calendar tacked to the side of Hannah's wardrobe. It still shows September and 15 th September is marked 'D's birthday' with a drawing of a heart.

Ever since passwords have needed letters  _ and _ numbers, Dean has used 'swdw0502', or some variation thereof. On a whim he types 'david0915', which doesn't work, and then 'daniel0915'. The desktop screen loads and Dean fist pumps, and then he does it again when Hannah's webmail is bookmarked and still logged-in. 

“Sam?”

“Yeah. Everything okay?” Sam whispers. 

“Yeah, fine.” Dean shifts the phone to his left ear and clicks on yet another email from Daniel Crowther, birthday 15th September. This one details fertility rites and their modern day applications. “Think I've found us our witch, Sammy,” he says.

  
  


****

  
  


The heat of the sun feels so good that Dean takes his jacket off. He leans against the bike rack and basks in it while he waits for Sam to get his ass out of the library. The dry tea smell of fallen leaves rises from the sidewalk and there's hardly anyone else about, just a few crows circling and taunting. Dean ignores them.

“I found a spate of similar deaths in Italy,” Sam says, way too smug, when he finally emerges. “One eye and one tooth missing in each case and all of the victims worked on the same estate, for this little old lady near Turin.”

“Think she's a witch?”

“No idea, or, well, she's not anything anymore: recently deceased. She was the last of her family and the whole estate got auctioned off in July.”

“Cursed object?” Dean says, “Anything come to the US?”

“Too many things, but I've made some enquiries,” Sam says. “I'm starving.”

It's kind of early for lunch, so they get coffee and pastries. There are children running around in fancy dress on the high street. Some stores are decorated, with window stickers and black and orange bunting. They're mostly the ones selling Halloween treats but there's a jack-o'-lantern in the window of the hardware store too, and false cobwebs and gel spiders in Dilly's restaurant.

Dean tries to walk past the candy store but it's just too tempting.

“I don't know Dean,” Sam says, feigning scepticism, “I don't think we're going to get many trick or treaters at the cabin.”

Dean tears open the giant bag of chocolate marshmallows and pops one in his mouth. It's awesome. Sam makes a grab for the bag but Dean holds it out of reach, so Sam grabs Dean instead, making a firebrand on his arm, and a tussle ensues. The next marshmallow Dean eats tastes even better than the first.

“I can't believe you spent twenty dollars on candy,” Sam says, mouth full of sugary mush, as he follows Dean into the liquor store.

“It's _Halloween_ Sam,” Dean says, the eye roll inherent. He picks up a bottle of Laughton Bros. bourbon and turns it, reading the label.

Out of the corner of his eye Dean can see Sam's inner struggle. It's kind of cute. The liquor looks good, he can almost taste it, and he knows Sam will be thinking the same, but he doesn't want Dean to take up drinking heavily again. “Since when do _we_ celebrate Halloween?” Sam says. “It's not exactly a happy family time.” He frowns at the bourbon in Dean's hands.

“Bullshit,” Dean says, turning on the grin that will both reassure and infuriate Sam. “I've pulled you out of _two_ fires on Halloween, which means I'm awesome,” he waggles the bottle under Sam's nose, “And I deserve a drink. Traditional Halloween treat, Sammy,” and Sam tries not to, but his face betrays him and he smiles like a compulsion to match Dean.

It might be Dean's very favourite trick, the way he can make Sam smile against his will, when Sam has nowhere to hide.

Dean has claimed Sam for his own on many occasions, and twice memorably on Halloween. Jess hadn't actually died until two days later but Sam doesn't quibble over the dates, and Dean thinks maybe he gets it too: Halloween has brought them together. At great cost, yes, but for Dean there can be no price too high.

Sam takes a brief call from the Sheriff's Department as Dean says pays for the liquor. “Daniel Crowther is Hannah's uncle,” Sam says. “He got back from Europe a week ago.”

“So let's get suited up. Pay him a visit,” Dean says. “And lunch,” he adds, as an afterthought.

“And lunch,” Sam echoes, and there's that smile again, and Dean's all sunshine on the inside too.


	5. Chapter 5

  
  


“So what the hell has Herne the Hunter got to do with this witches' vengeance stuff then?” Dean says, fixing his eyes on Sam's face in case they try to stray down to the pleasing fit of Sam's pants without Dean's permission. “No such thing as coincidence.”

Sam's lips twitch to the side in frustration. “I don't know,” he says, turning the heat down so the eggs can simmer gently.

Dean's not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and Sam had volunteered to make lunch for both of them, but he can't help poking at the eggs. He gets whapped on the hand with a fish-slice for his trouble. “Ow! Fuck, whad'ya do that for?”

“ _I'm_ doing it,” Sam says, “Go put stuff in the car or something.”

Dean scowls. “Same as yesterday but go easy on the vegetation, okay?” he says, and goes out to his Baby, who loves him and never whaps him with kitchen implements.

There's not much they can do to prepare for a fight with a witch, but there's no harm in pocketing some of the charmed pouches of herbs and animal bones that they've collected over the years. He sets aside the most authentic looking ones for Sam.

He's toying with the idea of taking along a few throwing blades, thinking about how best to conceal them whilst keeping them in easy reach, when Sam comes out.

“Lunch is served,” Sam says, but his voice is tight and his expression... Dean can tell that something's wrong. He grabs the sawn-off shotgun, pre-loaded with salt rounds, and slams the trunk.

“Where is he?” Dean demands. “Is he back? Get in the cabin Sam! Go!”

“Woah, Dean calm down,” Sam says, grasping Dean's shoulder, and Dean's mental tally clicks over to _two_. “He's gone.”

“I don't care,” Dean says, “Get back behind the salt lines and we'll have this discussion inside.”

Sam shakes his head, like Dean's the one being unreasonable, but they go in. Sam holds out a scrap of material for inspection. “He gave it to me,” he says, “Couldn't cross the salt lines but just stood there in the doorway, holding it out 'til I took it.”

“Herne the Hunter gave you a cloth?” Dean clarifies, ignoring the proffered material in favour of closing the door and pulling the thick blankets down over the windows, which makes it too dark to see, so he turns on the lights.

“Would you look at it?” Sam says, impatient, but Dean's not done refreshing the salt lines. “I think it's really old, and it's got some blood on it. And cat hair.”

“Nice.” Dean takes a look, once he's satisfied that they're as safe as the situation allows. The scrap of cloth looks gross. He doesn't take it.

Sam drops it to the counter and Dean shifts the sandwich plates out of range.

“It smells,” he says. In fact the whole cabin stinks. Something like horse but with more musk.

“He was trying to tell me something,” Sam says. “I think... I think he wants us to hunt. Together. Like how you give dogs a scent to follow?”

Dean curls his lip. “Yeah? Well you're not a dog, and that looks like old curtain with dead cat on to me.”

Sam's cell rings, and he holds up a hand while he takes the call, saying, “Yes this is Agent Schenker,” and, “Really? That's too bad,” and, “Second left off of Birch Lane. Be right there.”

“Another body?” Dean says, already knowing the answer. The real question is which one.

“Hannah,” Sam confirms, “Out in the woods,” and Dean's disappointment tugs in his gut. “But there's some ritual stuff too, with the body. Probably Crowther. Let's get over there, worry about this,” he reaches for the cloth but changes his mind, “Later.”

  
  


  
  


****

  
  


  
  


Dean never met Hannah but he's been in her bedroom and read through a lot of her emails, so he feels a connection with the dead girl lying amongst the branches and flowers. As much of a connection as he's felt with a chick for years, anyway. She's pretty. Or she was pretty. You know, pretty as dead chicks go.

Preliminary checks made by forensics puts the time of death as recently as last night, but the Winchesters have dealt with witches before and they recognise preservation magics when they see them. The more likely scenario is that Hannah's uncle found the body weeks ago, and that he's been performing whatever kookie rites dead witches get. He probably brought her out here last night for the authorities to claim, right around the time that Dean had been spooning up against Sam. Dean shudders. “She's not gonna wake up like Snow White is she?” he says.

Sam shakes his head sadly. “No. The herbs in her mouth were just tulsi and lavendar, for purification of the soul.”

The back of Sam's fingers graze over Dean's knuckles. _Three_.

“Did you get Crowther's address?” Sam asks.

“Yeah.” Dean stuffs his hands in his trouser pockets. “But Sheriff Walsowski says he spends all day at the local spa when he's in town. Guy's a total gym rat apparently.”

“Alright. So let's go. And don't get any ideas about massage,” Sam says.

Dean doesn't feel like joking around, not just yet anyway, but he quirks a smile at Sam, grateful for the attempt.

  
  


  
  


****

  
  


  
  


“Agents Schenker and Meine,” Dean says, and they flip their fake ID's.

Daniel Crowther laughs. “Daffy Duck,” he says, tapping his chest. “Go the hell away.”

“Okay, fine,” Sam says. “We're-”

“I know who you are,” Crowther says, “I _saw_ you coming.”

The way he says 'saw' makes it clear that he hadn't been watching out the window. “Okay. _That's_ not creepy,” Dean says. The desk clerk side-eyes them.

“Did you know that Hannah's body has been found?” Sam asks. “Did you do it? Arrange her body like that?”

“What do you think, genius?” Crowther says. “And I didn't 'arrange' her, it's called the Last Rites of Eris.” And this is why Dean hates witches. It's not the magic; it's not even the cats, although Dean's not exactly a fan; it's that this guy is an arrogant asshole, with his gym-cut muscles, expensive sportswear and bad attitude.

“Did you kill her?” Dean says, more to piss him off than anything.

“Fuck off,” Crowther spits. “There are ghouls in the cemetery two towns over. They'd appreciate a couple of lame-ass hunters for dinner.”

“If you know who or what killed Hannah then could you just tell us?” Sam persists. “All we want to do is stop it.”

Crowther gives them a narrow look and Dean mentally prepares himself for a curse, but apparently the urge to show off is too strong. “More _what_ than who ,” Crowther says with a look of disgust, but this time it's not directed at them. “Hannah was going to be my apprentice. She had potential; she could have been great. Then Vulpinius Di Risio, Scourge of the Earth, took her and three others from this town,” Crowther's volume rises with his agitation. “A meaningless attempt to appease his eternally rotting soul. And _he's hidden from me!_ ”

The desk clerk gestures at his phone, somewhat reluctantly, but Dean shakes his head, _no_.

“But no matter!” Crowther continues, on a roll. “I've outfoxed the fox.” His smile is deranged and aimed at nobody in particular. “Di Risio's pathetic excuse for an existence ends tonight!”

Sam catches Dean's eye and they share a look. Most witches are, at least, eccentric, but this guy is several bristles short of a full broomstick. 

Crowther keeps staring through them until it's very awkward. Sam clears his throat. “How?” he prompts.

It startles Crowther into remembering their presence and he snaps shut like a venus flytrap. “Never you mind,” he says, all emotion wiped away.

“Look, I think we want the same thing.” Sam says. “If you let us, then maybe we can help.”

Crowther spits on the floor between Dean's feet, which is really fucking annoying. “I was married once,” he says, “For four years before hunters took her from me. Your kind are more monstrous than the things you hunt.” He opens his sports jacket subtly to the side, displaying two small hex bags like some weird cowboy parody dressed in Nike. “Please fuck off,” Crowther says. “I won't ask again.”

They back away, weapon hands poised to draw, and Dean's palm itches for the weight of his gun. The desk clerk continues to look nervous until Crowther turns and walks back into the health club, and then he visibly slumps.

Sam tugs twice at the hem of Dean's jacket as they round the corner out of sight, and Dean wonders if it adds to the tally.He follows Sam to the locker room, and whad'ya know? The witch was right, Sam's a genius. 

“Which one?” Dean whispers. 

“Twenty four,” Sam says in a low voice, “The key-fob was pinned to the inside of his jacket.” 

“Good boy,” Dean praises, and he can feel Sam's flushed indignation as he makes quick work of the lock.

There's one of those snooty Hessian shopping bags in the locker, full of books and papers. Dean swipes it. He leaves the clothes and personal effects though, not wanting to annoy the guy into taking revenge. He likes the shape and size of his private parts just fine the way they are, thank you very much.

Sam is still standing there trying to look annoyed when he straightens up. He punches Dean's upper arm, muttering, “Hardly a boy,” and Dean decides that yes, it had counted.  _Four and five_ .

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

  
  


Dean drives and Sam pours over Crowther's books, grunting occasionally in acknowledgement or surprise.

Another flock of starlings swoop and swerve against the fading blue of the sky. Creatures of all kinds, both natural and supernatural, behave in strange ways at twilight; it's something that Dean has noticed over the years. The relative brightness of the sky makes silhouettes of the birds and of everything else. Stark trees line the roadsides, many of them already leafless and skeletal.

“It's all about self mummification,” Sam says eventually. “Gross.”

“ _Self_ mummification?” Dean says, “Don't you have to be dead first?”

“Well no, that's kind of the point.” They stop for a red traffic signal and Sam hands him a greyscale printout of a tiny wrinkled man sitting in the yoga 'lotus' position. He looks really sick; possibly already dead. “It was practised by Buddhist monks in Northern Japan, for spiritual purposes. They believed that preserving their bodies would keep their spirits in a place between worlds; that it would allow them to act as a spirit guide for others who wanted to reach Nirvana. They basically dehydrated and starved themselves to death.”

“Very noble,” Dean says. The signal changes and he lets the paper fall to his lap.

“It looks like European witches got hold of the ritual in the sixteen hundreds and made some additions. The Bohemian alchemist Georg Baresch supposedly mummified himself in 1662. They corrupted what had been a deeply spiritual practice for the monks with dark magic, so that they could live forever as super-charged ghosts.”

Sam turns his phone screen, and Dean glimpses a Wikipedia entry.

“Vulpinius Di Risio.” Sam says. “Famous Italian witch of the 17th Century.”

“So he's some kind of mega spirit-witch haunting Stonefort now? And what? Feeding on souls?”

“It's starting to look that way,” Sam says thoughtfully. “Even a really powerful ghost would have trouble stealing souls from the living though. All the victims have been adrift somehow; vulnerable. Maybe Di Risio is scavenging on the souls of the weak and unloved.”

“I don't know Sam, seemed like Crowther was plenty fond of Hannah to me.” Dean says, thinking again of Hannah's cheerful little house, empty now forever.

“Yes, but did Hannah know that?” Sam says. “I think he was still in the process of grooming her, and she'd had that breakup recently.”

They both think it over. Dean hopes that Hannah is resting now, wherever she is; that she's no longer broken-hearted. He takes them down the turning that leads onto the smaller forest roads and winces at every bump, trying to find the route of fewer pot-holes. “So we're looking for an ugly-ass mummy,” he says. “And what, a sarcophagus?”

“No, actually. The final stage of mummification involved being coated in many layers of molten gold,” Sam says. “Obviously the monks relied on somebody else to perform this last part but maybe Di Risio found a way to do it to himself.”

“That's...” Dean doesn't even have the words. “Why would anyone _do_ that?”

“Probably best not to over think it.” Sam says. “We're looking for a golden statue, and the ones in the book look smaller than you'd think. The body seems to shrink down during the process.”

Dean stretches out his back, trying to roll the idea off his shoulders. “Think Crowther has it?”

“No. He said he couldn't find Di Risio, and I'm pretty sure he would have destroyed it already if he could.”

“Witches lie, Sam.”

“Maybe. What I _do_ think is that he needed help hunting down Di Risio. I think he's summoned the Wild Hunt to do what he couldn't.”

They're heading East and the sky before them is a delicate pink, reflecting the setting sun. Dean glances in the rear-view at a rising bank of clouds, flaming orange like dragon-fire in the West.

“We have Crowther's address and he's probably going to be at the health club for a while.” Dean says.

Sam leans across to reclaim the printout from Dean's lap, instead of just asking for it like a normal person. His forearm presses Dean's thigh. _Six_ , Dean thinks, and next time will be seven, and seven is the magic number. Never before has Sam accidentally-on-purpose touched him seven times in one day.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Sam says, so Dean stops and performs a perfectly executed three-point-turn amongst the pot-holes.

  
  


****

  
  


They park-up across the street and climb over Crowther's automated gates. Dean goes first and stands back to sneakily admire the view as Sam follows, suit pulling tight in all the right places.

There are guard cats. Fucking guard cats. Dean gets clawed on the left hand and shin before they manage to shut them away, hissing and spitting in the hallway. Otherwise the house looks normal; neutral colours and dark wood, like a typical bachelor pad, if the bachelor is a neat freak and also filthy rich.

There had been a time, many years ago, when the excitement of finding a secret room had given Dean a buzz, like he was the hero of a storybook or something. These days it's the first thing they look for, a secret room being par-for-the-course for any self respecting witch. Sam finds it within seconds, tucked away behind the wine cellar. The door activates when a fake bottle of Cabinet Sauvignon is pulled, and it slides silently to the side to reveal a comfortable workspace. There's a central alter to The Mother of Chaos and Dean steps around, careful not to disturb, experience being the best teacher.

The desk is one of those leather padded jobs, the type that would auction for more money than Dean's car, which just goes to prove that the world is populated by airheads. It's littered with books and journals, so Crowther's not such a neat freak after all. This is likely the only part of his home that sees regular use.

“Should we take it?” Dean says, gesturing at the books and journals.

Sam doesn't reply right away, shuffling through book titles and flipping open the journals, seemingly at random. “No, I don't think we need to,” he says eventually. “It's all about the Wild Hunt, which confirms what we thought.” He runs a finger down a page of the fattest book until he finds what he's looking for and taps as he reads: “'The Wild Hunt is a harbinger of disaster and ruin, causing harvests to fail and sometimes outbreaks of plague,' and then here,” he runs his finger further down, “'In Scandinavia the Wild Hunt is a death omen to any man who sees it pass-' Dean, we have to stop the hunt. It could destroy the whole town.”

Sam holds out a hand for the one book Dean has picked up, which is typical.

“Let me see?”

Dean hands it over. “It's about super-powered ghosts again,” he says.

Sam takes it but doesn't open it, staring at the title in thought. “If he summoned Herne the Hunter then the Wild Hunt might have followed. I think we just need to find the summoning ritual he used and reverse it.”

Some of the journals and bits of paper drop to the floor. They both ignore them. Crowther's going to be pissed anyway, and this room was kind of a mess to begin with.

Sam starts scanning the book's index and Dean rolls his eyes. Sam might have a college education but sometimes he can't see the woods for the trees, or the pages for the words. Dean snatches the book and balances it upside down, spine between his thumbs. The pages fan apart, with a clear gap a third of the way through. He finger-marks the place and hands it back to Sam.

“Thanks,” Sam says, a little sheepish, and scrutinises the text. “Got it,” he confirms. “He would have needed acorns I think, from the original tree...”

“One of the postcards was from England.”

“...and he'd have buried them, with something belonging to the intended prey. Kind of like the summoning ritual for crossroad demons.”

“Buried it where? At a crossroads?”

“No. At the foot of a giant oak tree,” Sam says, triumphant.

“So we dig up some acorns and banish the hunt, and we're home in time for supper?” Dean says, feeling relieved because for a while there it had looked like they were in for a long night. “Awesome.”

“I'm not digging anything up in this suit,” Sam says, smoothing his hands over his thighs, and Dean's eyes damn near boggle out of his skull. And _shit_ , when Dean forces himself to look up, Sam's expression has changed, calculating and... something else.

Dean feels adrenaline flood his veins. He doesn't know where to look or what to do but suddenly it's very, very important to keep things normal. “Whatever, princess,” he says, “Let's go.”

They climb out through a ground floor window to avoid the guard-cats-from-Hell. Dean goes first, jumps the gate and doesn't wait for Sam. He swallows thickly, and when he's sure of his voice he calls back, “And Sam?”

“Yeah Dean?” Sam says, much closer than Dean had been expecting, making him flinch.

“You make one squirrel joke and I'm burying _your_ nuts next.”

  
  


  
  


****

  
  


  
  


Dean will be glad to see the back of Herne the Hunter. Sam has a knack for attracting weirdos (and yes, Dean's counting himself in there too) but Sam usually keeps his head and sees them for who or what they are. This time Sam's been acting weird himself, like he's charmed or possibly like he's been enchanted. The sooner they burn those damned acorns the better.

“Do you think it's human blood?” Sam says, handling the stinky piece of cloth again.

“No way of knowing without getting it analysed is there,” Dean says. “You taking that thing with you?”

If Herne the Horny really is looking for a new hunting buddy then he's shit out of luck because Sam is Dean's. In denim and plaid Sam is so intensely himself, so familiar and precious and _Sam_ , that Dean wants to get down on his knees and weep because he's already the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet. 

“ _We_ are taking it with _us_ ,” Sam says. “Wanna hold it? You know, it looks like cat hair but it could be a lot of other animals too.”

“I'll pass, thanks.”

Dean touches up the salt lines when they leave. The last thing they want is for Herne, Di Risio and the entire ghostly hunt to be waiting for them inside the cabin when they get back.

The small golden fox sits quietly by the balalaika and watches them go.

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

  
  


Dean runs his hands over the ridged bark. Here in the moonlight, he feels sorry for ever wanting to fell this magnificent tree; glad that they won't need to. The girth of its trunk is wider than either of them could reach, even if they stood around it and held hands. The fact that Dean is fantasizing about tree hugging with Sam says a lot about the effects of too much nature and fresh air. He's turning into a goddamn hippy.

His hand finds an irregular patch where the bark has been cut away. “Here,” Dean says. “A sigil.”

Sure enough, the earth below has been recently turned, but Sam has to dig a long way down, navigating a web of roots, and he has to cut through some of them. Dean keeps one hand braced on the trunk, silently apologising.

The tin is about four feet down. “There's no way he buried it this deep,” Sam says, trying to work the tin free, lying on his belly with his arm down the hole. “It's like the tree has pulled it down; accepted the offering.”

Dean takes a subtle step back from the oak. It does look kind of menacing in the gloom, now he thinks about it.

Sam stands and opens the tin. “They're old,” he says, “More like dried peas than acorns. And there's nothing else in here. There's supposed to be something to scent the prey.”

“Maybe it's that thing,” Dean says, pointing to Herne's bloody rag, hanging from Sam's back pocket in West Coast gangster parody. Sam glances down. Dean quickly lowers his finger. “So come on,” Dean says. “Let's burn them and get out of here.”

“Oh,” Sam says, eyes widening, looking behind Dean, and Dean doesn't need to turn around to know who's made an appearance.

Sam holds the tin out, offering it up, and maybe he's holding it out to Dean but somehow Dean just knows that he's holding it out to Herne instead, and _fuck that noise_.

Dean snatches the tin, zippo drawn and swivels to face Herne. He sets the acorns alight and they catch easily.

Herne smiles, fucking _smiles_ , and, facing Sam, bends in a shallow bow. His body changes shape as he walks away into the forest, edges becoming less defined. He comes apart from the antlers down, falling into many small pieces that gently settle, nothing but a pile of leaves.

Dean yelps and drops the hot tin, breaking the silence. “Why do I get the feeling that burning those acorns didn't solve anything?” he says.

It's almost full dark and children all over the country will be setting out to collect candy and gorge themselves into sugar comas. Sam's phone jingles cheerfully. “Just an email,” he says. Dean hoists the shovel over a shoulder, dwarf-style, and they start back. Sam thumbs at his phone, the screen turning his face an eerie blue. “Remember that estate in Italy?” he says, “Turns out everything was shipped to the US. Some distant relative in California. And most of it has been auctioned off... _oh my God_.”

Sam stops moving. “Sam?”

“What if Di Risio was a shapeshifter? An animal statue would've been much less suspicious, and the process less painful... _shit_. Even his name means fox, how did I miss that?”

Realisation dawns for Dean, with a bad case of creeping skin. “No fucking way,” he says, his guts turned to snakes. “That ugly-ass fox statue at the cabin?”

Sam doesn't reply, biting his lips together but the pleading look he gives Dean says it all. They have slept next to that thing; it has been _inside their salt lines_. Dean shudders. “So it's solid gold?”

“Only on the outside,” Sam says, grimly.

  
  


****

  
  


The first few snapping twigs could be birds. They could be the sounds of small foraging woodland creatures. The footpath is too dark to be safe, and Dean's worried that one of them will trip on a root, but leaves rustle untouched to his left, and they walk faster anyway.

The _pad, pad, pad_ of footfalls gradually surrounds them but there's nothing to see, however hard they look. There's the sound and smell of panting of dogs trotting at heel, and the snort of a non-existent horse is the final straw. The cabin comes into view and Sam catches Dean's eye. “Run!” he says.

They run together, fast as they've ever run before. Sam grabs Dean's forearm and holds on, and laughter bubbles up inside Dean. He tries to fight it down because now really isn't the time, but there's a tiny man dancing in his brain, yelling, _Seven! Seven! Seven!_

The moon has risen, huge and orange, lighting their path. A shadow slips across a tree trunk, a rider, and they break clear of the forest into the final stretch of path. On the open ground there's no mistaking the sound of hooves stomping out a three-beat canter, easily keeping pace.

By the time they reach the cabin the Wild Hunt is all around them. Dean can't see them but he can smell them, rich and heady. He leaps over the salt lines, following Sam into the cabin, and slams the door. “I thought banishing Herne meant banishing the hunt?” he pants, leaning heavily on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

Sam's not so short of breath, all those early morning runs paying off. He walks around the cabin turning on the lights, each one a beacon of comfort and sanity. They can do this, Dean realises; they're the best in the business. He straightens and goes to pick up the fox statue.

“Don't touch..!” Sam's warns, too late, and the electric lights explode in quick succession, _smash smash smash_ , like unloading a full clip. Dean cowers away from the shattering glass, the fox gripped tight in both hands, and his hands are stuck; he can't let go.

Sam runs at him but rebounds off of an invisible barrier. He pounds at it with his fists but can't get close to Dean and the balalaika whizzes past his head, straight through the barrier at high speed, the long end aimed at Dean.

Dean blocks it with the fox, and the wooden instrument shatters with a discordant _twang_ of strings. When he looks back at Sam, Sam is opening the door. “Sam, no!” Dean hollers, fending off a volley of barbecue utensils that are shooting for his heart. They clatter against the metal of the fox, falling harmlessly to the floor, but the kitchen cupboards swing open and their contents starts to rattle and rise.

A blood chilling baying starts up in the open doorway. It makes the hair all over Dean's body stand on end. “Hellhounds,” he whispers, the horror of it crawling up his throat. “ _Sam_.”

Sam has taken the bloody rag from his pocket. He holds it out for the hounds to scent. Dean sees them now in the moonlight, huge shapes, areas of deeper darkness with flashing eyes and teeth.

The hounds take the scent. They howl and all the cabin windows smash. An unnatural wind tears through, lifting and scattering the salt lines, whisking the grains away. Dean's makeshift curtains billow and he sees that there are many horsemen outside, the horses' eyes red, stomping and pawing the ground and whinnying in anticipation.

The statue in Dean's hands burns hot and splits in two. He drops it, finally free to let go, and then quickly scoops it up again to throw the pieces on the burner. The fire roars, claiming its prize, but a flaming fox leaps out and dashes through the open door. Sam goes after it.

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

  
  


The entire Wild Hunt is waiting outside, restless riders forming a loose semi circle with Sam at their centre. Dean's choices are either step back into the cabin and find a weapon, or place himself directly between danger and Sam, which is no choice at all. Sam stops him, arm out, and Dean has to be content with standing impotently at Sam's side. It's impossible to watch so many ghosts at once; they press in on every side. There are too many to fight off anyway, even if Dean did have a rock-salt shotgun to hand.

The horses snort and stamp out tight circles, eager to run, but the riders rein them in, waiting for something; waiting for something from _Sam_. They're mostly heavy horses, the type that would once have pulled ploughs, foaming at the mouth and steaming with sweat. Some have scars; one has an arrow jutting from its rump, and another's lips have been cut away to reveal a permanent sneer of horse teeth. Its lips _and_ its eyelids, Dean realises. Ugh.

A wild-haired rider moves to the front, a woman dressed in nothing more than animal skins and primitive jewellery with leather-strap sandals. She dismounts gracefully and kneels before Sam, and again Dean tries to get between them, and again Sam holds him back. She offers up a large twisted horn and a tribal spear, her eyes cast down until Sam accepts them. When she looks up she's saying something but no sound is coming out. Her colours are too faded for the world of the living and her hair moves around her head in a phantom breeze. Sam nods like he understands and hands the spear to Dean.

“What are you doing?” Dean hisses, urgently scrutinising Sam's face for some hint of a plan. He presses close to Sam's side, personal space be damned.

“Hunting,” Sam says, and his voice is calm, too calm, and it rings out more clearly than it should. Dean doesn't like it at all. He takes Sam's arm and turns to drag him back to the cabin but a horse blocks their path. It whickers and rears, and Dean stumbles away dragging Sam with him. Its rider is something out of a history book from Halloween School: Genghis Khan's body seated backwards, neck twisted all the way around to face front, leering at them.

Their other escape is blocked too, by a lady in tattered finery, masses of hair piled up on her head. She rides bareback on the biggest horse of the lot, her bloody dress hitched almost all the way up so that she can splay her legs wide across the horse's massive bulk. Dean can't tear his eyes away, half horrified, half turned on. Her breasts bulge and her hair has come loose, sticking out every which-way and blowing in the same ghostly wind that Dean can't feel. She stares right through them, wide-eyed.

The other riders close in. They're mostly soldiers in every era of armour and uniform, from knights in chain mail to desert rats. Sam walks through them as though it's his birth right, and Dean can only follow, the horrors parting to allowing them passage. “Sam, what the fuck are we doing?” Dean says again but Sam doesn't even look back. Dean keeps well back from two snarling nuns who are sharing a single horse. They gnash their chipped and pointy teeth at him as the priest at their side tracks Sam's progress, his head tucked firmly under one arm, his dome-shaped hat reaching higher than the bloody stump of his neck.

Dean carefully avoids looking at the mingling hounds. They're behaving like normal dogs for now, so Dean's going to worry about everything else first.

“ _Sam,_ ” Dean tries again, trying to keep his voice low so he doesn't trigger the hounds, even as he feels panic beginning to bubble up inside. Or maybe it's excitement. There's something in the air, pheromones... electricity; something familiar, and it's calling to Dean's animal brain. It's like anticipating a lightening storm; his body feels wired, little thrills running through his veins. It's like knowing that lightening is directly overhead, knowing that next ground strike could blow you away, and kind of wanting it to.

Not all of the horses have riders, and Sam leads them to one of the riderless few. It's a massive beast, bigger than any real life horse that Dean has ever seen, with a saddle and a bridle. Dean's busy wondering what happened to its rider when Sam mounts up, and Dean doesn't even try to stop him because it's the last thing he's expecting Sam to do.

“What? No, come on, Sam,” he says, but Sam just smiles a small and infuriating smile while he fusses, settling himself in the saddle, and Dean thinks about pulling him down and wiping the smile off with his teeth, except that whatever it is that's messing with his senses is taking stronger hold. Sam extends a hand in invitation and the unnatural gravity is back, but this time in Sam's gaze. It feels too good for Dean to pass up, like sugar on his tongue; in his veins.

“Come on,” Sam says, and apparently Dean's common sense is just as screwed up because he takes Sam's hand like the challenge it is, and hoists himself up behind, so close it's almost like they're spooning again. _Fuck it_ , Dean thinks, and lets himself sink deep into the saddle. Whatever they're doing, they're doing it together.

The horse takes off. It doesn't actually leave the ground but it leaps forwards and gallops so fast that it may as well be flying. Dean clings to Sam, both arms around Sam's waist, squished together groin-to-ass in a saddle made for a giant. He holds on for dear life.

They're in the forest before Dean really gets his bearings, and the hounds start to bay. There are no words but Dean understands what they're doing: voicing their skill and taunting their prey. ' _We're_ c _oming for you_ ,' they're saying, ' _We're gonna tear you apart_.' He remembers it well.

The other riders around them are silent thunder, whipping though the forest, their horses navigating obstacles with supernatural agility. It's a rush that feels dangerously addictive. Dean mentally urges their horse to run harder, the last vestiges of his apprehension falling away. Never before has speed been this exhilarating, and he fucking loves it. The same excitement rolls off of Sam in waves: _faster, wilder._ It feels like flying.

They're unstoppable, leaping ditches and weaving twisting paths through the trees. Their bodies move as one, leaning into jumps and turns, a two-headed beast with four legs. They anticipate the landings, perfectly balanced, and Dean wants to stand in the saddle like a circus performer and never fall, but it feels too good to be pressed up against Sam; better than everything else.

The urge to kill and to fuck, preferably at the same time, has swallowed sense. Dean's hard in his jeans, he can't help it, and a forearm around Sam that strays not-accidentally too low tells the same story. It's under their skin; in their blood.

There's a light, tiny but unmistakable in the distance. Sam has seen it too. He raises the horn to his lips and a note blasts out. It's linked directly to Dean's heart, which surges and trips, double, triple time, and his body sings _yes._ Winchesters are hunters and this is the ultimate hunt. It's what they were made for.

The hounds turn sharply and the riders follow, not a stumble amongst them. Dean experiences a pride that isn't strictly his but belongs to every member of the Hunt. They're Death on Horseback; they're a force of nature.

The pinprick of orange grows to a flame, dancing away from the hounds in a last desperate bid for life, even as the hounds voice their triumph. They surge forwards, closing in for the kill, and Dean watches for the moment when the flame will stop moving. It comes quickly.

Sam calls, “Hold!” His voice is cold and clear, and so unlike Sam's usual voice that Dean wouldn't have recognised it, if he hadn't felt the vibration of the command all through his own body.

They close the distance to the largest hound. It has the fox, dangling by the scruff of its neck, tiny in comparison. The fox's struggles are weak but its flames are still bright.

Sam turns to Dean. “He's all yours,” he says, and Dean wants it. He wants the kill and feels a surge of love for Sam, grateful for the gift of it.

Spear in hand, he dismounts. He glances back at Sam and for a moment it's Sam who is the fox, watching Dean with slanted eyes and a knowing smile.

The hound drops the fox at Dean's feet and backs away to watch. They're all watching. A rhythmical pounding takes up: riders beating their shields in time _._ Those without weapons clap their hands. Bareback lady pounds her chest: _thud- thud- thud-_

Dean's body thrums with it. The pounding gets subtly faster: _kill- kill- kill-_ under his skin and in his blood. He tries to think clearly, to remember that the fox is both witch and killer, not some hapless woodland creature, but Di Risio ceased to be human centuries ago and all Dean sees at his feet is a small quivering animal.

Faster, the Hunt is impatient for the kill, faster and louder until it's a riot in Dean's ears and the fox's eyes roll in terror, and still Dean holds back. He needs a reason, needs to remember, but the impulse pounds in his skull and he raises the spear anyway. The drumming is quick now, quick as his pulse, too fast to think. _Hannah_ , he thinks desperately, _Hannah with her missing eye and tooth_ , and strikes the blow.

The spear thrusts deep into the fox's flesh, angled up beneath its ribs and piercing its heart. The riders fall silent. For a moment there are glowing cinders in the shape of a small wretched fox but the body crumples in on itself and then there is only ash.

Sam's still smiling. It feels like approval; like the rays of the sun touching Dean's soul. Something glints above Sam's head though, many surfaces reflecting moonlight like a star-crown, and Dean glances down. Sam's moon-shadow has _antlers_.

Sam turns his horse away with the rest of the Hunt. “Sam, wait!” Dean says, following on foot with the hounds.

Sam looks back. His eyes could be full black in the dark. He's too big on the horse. “Come, Dean,” he says, but Dean can't keep up. The horses pick their way though the roots and Dean stumbles as a distant horn sounds. He almost crashes into the back of the headless priest, or maybe through him, because riders, horses and hounds all stop to listen, straining to hear the call. Dean can feel it too. It's the lure of fresh blood pooling in his own, and the Hunt is readying to give chase.

Sam's antlers are clearer but not quite there, not yet, but Sam isn't supposed to have antlers. He's not supposed to be _that_ tall.  The moon is supposed to be silver-white but tonight it's orangey-yellow and huge behind Sam, silhouetting him. _Blood on the moon,_ Dean thinks wildly _._ “Sam,” he says, and he means, _Don't go_.

Sam turns away.

“Sam, no!” Dean cries, panicked. It's Halloween again and this time he's going to lose Sam for real. “Sammy? Sam! _Please_!” Dean yells, and his voice breaks but finally Sam is listening. He looks down at his hands holding reins and frowns, and - _thank God-_ swings himself down off the horse and shrinks down to his usual size without changing at all.

  
  



	9. Chapter 9

“Uh,” Sam says, reaching for Dean as soon as he's within range. He's shaking all over but the antlers are gone. “Fuck. Dean, I...”

“Yeah. Yeah Sam, s'okay, c'mere.” Dean touches him compulsively, takes his hands and they're freezing and Sam clutches back, pressing his fingers into Dean's arms, Dean's shoulders, the back of Dean's neck. It sends crazy signals zapping through Dean's body, still aroused from the hunt.

Horses paw the ground around them, eager to be off but Dean can't spare them a thought. He gets his fingers into Sam's hair and kisses him, fierce and blind. Sam pushes into it, kisses back, returning Dean's assault open-mouthed. His hands slip under Dean's shirt like ice and Dean's skin pebbles with gooseflesh.

Dean gets his hands inside Sam's shirt at the neck, pushing back the layers because he needs to touch Sam where he's warm. The newly exposed flesh calls to Dean, begging to be bitten, so Dean bites, gently, kissing and sucking a path down Sam's throat, his shoulders, the top of his chest. Sam tastes like Nirvana.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam says, tugging at Dean's belt, and it's a plea. His other arm is rigid against Dean's back, locking them together, vibrating as Sam's body trembles and making Dean's body tremble too. Sam's eyes are impossibly dark, both of them charged with energy that needs to go _somewhere_ , and soon. If they can't discharge this way then they'll have to run, or fight, or something, but they _are_ doing this. They're really doing this; Sam _wants_ to do this and Dean's done waiting.

“Yeah,” Dean says, voice coming out rough. He unbuckles Sam's jeans and all around them the Hunt scatters in an avalanche of hooves. Sam works Dean's jeans open, works Dean's cock free. His hands are a little warmer but still cool to the touch and Dean shudders from head to foot. It feels wonderful, and then a million times better when he gets his own hands on Sam's cock, hot and heavy with blood. Finally, _finally_.

“Fuck. _Dean_ ,” Sam groans, and yeah, Dean knows all about that. He brings their cocks together, holding them with both hands and Sam's hands too, making a warm tight space for them both to fuck into. Sam sucks on Dean's lower lip and Dean moans.

Sam widens his stance, bringing them level, and Dean's body goes into overdrive, desperate. Being allowed to get off with Sam's hands and Sam's cock is too good to last. He buries his face in Sam's neck and sucks at the skin there as the noise of the Hunt diminishes, the baying of the hounds the last thing to fade.

Sam's hips work steadily, keeping time with Dean's quick pace. He turns his head to rest on Dean's and breathes shallowly into Dean's hair, locking him in place. It's just the two of them in the moonlight, surrounded by the lingering scent of raw energy, shaking apart with excitement.

The tunnel of their hands turns wet and Dean ruts into it for all he's worth. It could be his slick easing the way or it could be Sam's, which is so fucking hot, and he can feel Sam's glans swelling; can feel every slippery bump of Sam's cock, so rigid against his own.

Sam starts to make wounded little humming noises before he comes, and Dean feels the moment when he tips over, Sam's cock pulsing and spurting, filling their hands, and Dean is _done_. Dean's orgasm rips through him, going on and on, so long that his knees feel weak. He doesn't even care when Sam cups his ass with wet hands and holds him as the last twitches and spasms work their through his body.

  
  


  
  


********

  
  


  
  


There's no light at the cabin and scattered glass and kitchen implements are everywhere. They light a fire first, and Dean nails the curtain blankets all the way around the windows as the cabin gently warms. All the detritus gets swept into a corner and they re-draw the salt lines, with an additional inner salt circle around their sleeping bags.

“Hey, look at this,” Dean says, twisting the end of a candy tube. It lights up, a miniature pumpkin LED lantern. He'd bought five of them, so he empties the other four and sets them out around the circle, almost like candlelight.

It's Sam who opens the bottle. He hands it to Dean to take the first drink, watching Dean's lips all the while and then licking the liquor right out of his mouth.

They undress, all the way because Sam won't be satisfied with anything less, and stretch out in front of the fire. Dean feels exposed and embarrassed of his erection in a way that he hasn't been since he was a teenager, but Sam covers him with his body and soothes him with kisses. Sam kisses the scratch on Dean's forearm made by Crowther's guard cats, and then the one on his shin, working his way to Dean's centre, teasing. Eventually he reaches Dean's cock and takes it in his mouth. Dean has to screw his eyes closed and make fists just to keep control.

Before Dean can lose it completely however, Sam pulls off and sucks on his balls instead. The cabin is toasty-warm and Dean's cheeks feel like they're burning up, his pale body turned cotton-candy pink all over, begging to be licked some more by Sam. Sam sits back on his heels looking smug and Dean can't even keep a straight face, grinning like an idiot.

“Been thinking about this for a while,” Sam says taking a little bottle of lube that Dean hadn't noticed and snapping open the cap.

“Yeah?” Dean's voice is raspy, breathless. Sam coats his fingers but instead of spreading Dean's legs like Dean's expecting him to, Sam reaches back and begins to prep himself. “ _Fuck_ ,” Dean says, voice like the gritty ocean bed, and it's probably best if he gives up talking now.

“Touch me, Dean,” Sam says, and Dean does. He tugs on Sam's cock, rolling Sam's balls in his other hand while Sam opens himself up. Dean can't look away, every twitch and shift of it playing across Sam's face.

When Sam's ready Dean holds his hips and helps to guide him down, but the first breach of Sam's body has Dean flailing, neck straining backwards and chest arching up off the floor. Sam is hot, tight, wet; too good, too much and Dean wants to drum his heels on the floor.

Sam doesn't wait for him to settle. His hips move in smooth practised semi-circles, riding Dean like a pro, and Dean didn't know that Sam could be like this; can't reconcile the sex-god riding his cock with his little brother. All he can do is lie back and moan.

Sam is all the things he was in the forest: mysterious in the shadow of his hair, as he watches Dean fall apart beneath him; larger than life, firelight playing on the muscles of his shoulders.

Dean has no hope of holding back. Sam's body works him, steady and persistent, wringing out Dean's pleasure until he cries out and spills, Sam's body milking it from him. Sam takes his own cock in hand and the movement of his hips changes; quicker, more focussed. The antlers are long gone but Dean can picture them as Sam comes spectacularly, marking Dean all across his chest, his neck; even his lips.

Afterwards Dean can't help himself. “I told you all that Herne-is-harmless crap was bullshit,” he says. “Something cute from a children's book my ass.”

“Your ass next.” Sam agrees genially, nodding.

“There were fucking hell hounds, Sam. _Hell hounds_.”

“Yeah well, they're gone now,” Sam says, but he holds Dean closer and passes him the bourbon.

Dean looks at their little circle of orange lanterns. “One thing's for sure,” he says. “We're staying inside the salt circle for the rest of the night. Hope you don't need to pee, Frances.”

Sam pushes him back so that Dean's lying on the pad of sleeping bags again. He nips playfully at Dean's lips, not letting himself be caught for a proper kiss, so Dean rolls them and pins Sam in place. Kissing Sam is never going to get old.

  
  


  
  


**November**

  
  


  
  


Sam's not there when Dean wakes up, but there's a fire in the stove and the smell of freshly roasted coffee. “Sam?” he calls.

“Out here.”

Outside is breathtaking. There are two feet of mist at ground level, like the littlest blanket of cloud, and above them the sky is clear blue, the last pinks of sunrise just fading. All around the cabin is a jewelled garden of dewdrops sparkling in the sunlight, tiny enough to be frost except for the telltale wet footprints where Sam has trodden.

Sam is sitting on the bottom step, coffee mug in hand. He stands when he hears Dean. They regard each other for a moment but Sam looks away, at his hands, setting the mug down on a step. Dean looks out to the fields. “So what next?” he says, quietly.

“We should move on,” Sam says, “Crowther's going to be pissed.”

Dean clears his throat and tries for casual. “We could stay here a while.” There had been some hefty clumps of gold in the fireplace but Dean doesn't want to keep them, no matter how much they're worth. “I figured we could package up the remains; throw them over Crowther's gate,” he says. “Maybe keep him off of our backs.”

“Or take it to his door, like normal people, and tell him what happened.”

“Guard cats, Sam,” Dean says darkly.

Sam rolls his eyes but smiles. “He'd probably come after us anyway. He wasn't exactly well balanced. Or hunter friendly,” Sam says. He comes to stand on the lower step so that Dean's taller. Dean's muscles tense when he realises what Sam's about to do but it's only a learned response, one that he thinks he'll un-learn real soon. They kiss, tenderly and lazily, until Sam leans away to get a good look at Dean's face. His arms keep Dean's hips close and he looks into Dean's eyes as though he's trying to communicate directly with Dean's soul. It's too intense for Dean in the early morning.

“Breakfast,” Dean says, to distract Sam and also to postpone the decision about leaving for a while longer.

Sam looks pointedly through the doorway of the cabin, where candy wrappers are strewn on every surface.

“Breakfast and then more fucking,” Dean insists, making Sam laugh in little puffs of steamy breath, his cheeks flushed pink. He climbs the final step and stands behind Dean, slipping his arms around so that they're both looking out at the mist.

Their fingers interweave and Sam holds on tight.

“I checked out the story on those ghouls...” Sam says.

“Yeah?”

“They're in Carbondale. More than two of them, maybe as many as five.”

Dean thinks about it. They're not likely to come back here, to this forest and this cabin, and even if they did it wouldn't be the same. It wouldn't be this world of delicate yellow sunlight where their shadows are always long. “We could just stay here for a while,” he says again.

“Porn on cable?” Sam entices, with a squeeze of his arms. It triggers Dean's emotions, all of them at once, and he nearly chokes on tears before he can reel them back. _This is it,_ he thinks. It's all he's ever wanted, from Sam and from life.

There's a chill in the air that hadn't been there before but Sam is warm at Dean's back, breath tickling his ear. Dean doesn't need to ask about the birds that fly past because he recognises their V-shaped formation; can hear them honking softly to each other: They're wild geese and they're flying home.

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought about dragging them all the way to Windsor Great Park but forcing Dean onto an aeroplane just seemed excessively cruel in the end.
> 
>  
> 
> As I was saying to [Lochinvar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lochinvar/pseuds/Lochinvar), I _think_ that the lipless and lidless horse is from the Mabinogion via Jenny Nimmo's Magician Trilogy, and of course the wild geese thing is Mary Oliver :)
> 
>  
> 
> And, um, _I do not condone fox hunting, witch hunting or self mummification._


End file.
